


A Year at St Mark’s

by Medea87



Category: Home Fires (UK TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Male Character, Pre-Canon, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, a year in the life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29927136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medea87/pseuds/Medea87
Summary: Adam Collingborne and the wheel of the liturgical year in Great Paxford.
Relationships: Adam Collingborne/Sarah Collingborne
Kudos: 1





	1. Advent - Christmas - Epiphany

Advent

It is always a special time of the year, a time of quiet anticipation. Or at least he tries to encourage that.

The chill in the air and the smoke of the fire, Sarah’s soft hands on his back as she peers over his shoulder to read what he’s written, setting a steaming hot cup of Earl Grey tea and Tunnock’s caramel wafer next to his typewriter. Knowing what he needs without even asking after these many years. Her quiet presence by his side at this, his busiest time.

Mrs Felgate always at his shoulder in church, “I do really think the Ivy this year, I know we always have the Holly as it does make the church look brighter, but maybe a change this year?”. The evergreen of outside, dark and glossy, changing the nature of his church. “I think the Holly, it always seems so smart”, with the blood red nestled among the dark green, a reminder of everlasting life.

“Are we?” “I think so!” “Is it really?!” He knows no other church that does it locally, seen as one of his Scottish oddities; but the thrill of anticipation at the Christingle and the ripe orange at its centre screams the start of Christmas to most of these children. Jelly sweets on cocktail sticks stuck into an orange wrapped with a red ribbon that the WI have prepared the night before, some more artistic than others with coloured patterns carefully arranged with the sweets and an artfully tied bow. A couple of the children furtively pocket the sweets for later while others swiftly gobble them down, cheeks swollen like that of a squirrel preparing its stores for the winter. The sweet and sharp tang of orange as the children bite into them, juice smearing their faces, a treat the church can scarce afford – but something special none the less.

The advent wreath, purple, purple, rose, purple. Hope, faith, joy, peace. The candles lit one-by-one, week-by-week. “In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” The Promise for what is to come.

* * *

Christmas

He works late on Christmas Eve, parishioners filling his pews for midnight mass. Faces he hasn’t seen in many months; so many bodies packed together in winter coats, faces flushed with warmth and merriment and in a few cases undoubtedly from a few drinks down the Black Horse. The candles give the church an ethereal glow in the dark, and there is a moment of hush, expectant excitement before the congregation break out into, “Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning…”

He has many people to greet and talk to all seeking a word from their vicar. A smile, a nod, a well-considered answer, then waving them goodnight and off out into the cool, dark night, frost already visible on the ground. Frances and Peter wait with Sarah, tired heads resting on Peter’s shoulders. He can almost hear Frances’ laugh, distracting him for a moment as he returns to those who seek a kind word or some reassurance.

It’s a short walk from St Mark’s to the vicarage and in a few short hours it will be morning and a hectic day awaits. He enjoys this opportunity to take a slow, stroll through the village, a moment of peaceful togetherness with his wife. Sarah’s cold body tucked tight under his arm, her head against his shoulder, strands of her hair breaking loose from her smooth chignon and the faint hint of her perfume in the sharp, cold night air. Her hand like ice in his and he thinks, ‘if all we can have are moments like this, it will be a good life.’

He wakes early, Sarah’s body hot against him. As he folds back the blanket to get out of bed and meet the frigid air of the room she begins to stir. Her eyes just peering over the edge of the blankets’, trying to keep the ice chill of the room at bay; then she reaches out to him as if to call him to return to their bed and her warmth. He sits down next to her to say, “Merry Christmas”. She pulls him down to her clutching him tight, the knuckles of her finely-boned hand whitening. He gently kisses her forehead and then breathes her in, something sweet, spicey, delicate and all her own, before reluctantly disentangling himself to start his day.

On Christmas morning he sees his normal parishioners, some of those from mass last night, and more who hadn’t been, now here with their young children. The cough of Mrs Ransom, the cry of a baby, mother’s frantically trying to quiet their children. His flock are gathered in. “IN the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…”

* * *

Epiphany

While his parishioners may like to think of themselves as Godly Christians more or less (definitely less in Sarah’s case), that doesn’t stop them from enjoying twelfth night. Hot spiced cider among the trees, the Farrow’s with young Stan guiding everyone out into the fields and woodland. He catches the odd laugh or snatch of conversation as they go buy, flickers of light in the distance, with the young trying fruitlessly to escape the eyes of their watchful parents. He is invited, but he knows that it would be awkward for them if their vicar was there. Expectant of a disapproval he doesn’t hold, unable to enjoy the wassailing of the orchards of apple and plum and damson with his presence.

Attendance has dipped away, the children back at school, the commuters back to the daily grind, heading out to Chester and Winsford and Crewe and even some over the border to Wrexham. A greyness starts to hang over the village; end of holidays, presents broken or forgotten and the grim wait by many for pay day.

Mrs Esposito a constant presence despite her Italian Catholicism, or perhaps because of it. Another dark figure among a sea of darkly dressed women, reminiscent of the wintery plumage of a flock of birds. All drabness with the bright of the evergreen now gone from the church. The little radiance there is coming from the weak and watery winter light straining to make it’s way through the aged stained glass windows of the church. “Dear friends, forty days ago we celebrated the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. Now we recall the day on which he was presented in the Temple, when he was offered to the Father and shown to his people…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I specifically mention Mrs Esposito's Italian Catholicism rather than Roman Catholicism as Epiphany is celebrated much more widely in Italy than in the UK.


	2. Shrove Tuesday - Ash Wednesday - Passion Sunday - Maundy Thursday

Shrove Tuesday

He wakes to a cool bed and the quiet hum of the wireless. His clothes are laid out on the chair, already brushed down and ready for the day, with the faint trace of Sarah’s perfume still present. He stands quietly at the kitchen door and listens to her tuneful hum, as she moves her body slowly in time to the music, frying pan already in hand.

The slightly imperfect circles on the centre plate, some more browned than others with the ancient, chipped sugar bowl and lemons cut into thick wedges sitting side by side.

“All the eggs used up?”

“And butter”

He does appreciate that she joins him in his Lenten fast at home, even if it’s an open secret between them after their many years of marriage that Frances acts as her semi-secret biscuit dealer at this time of year. All carefully kept from the more austere ladies of the parish.

He sits quietly in the pews of St Mark’s mainly alone; waiting for those who seek to be shriven. A few ladies come, some men, his regulars; most others are still at work. The Markham’s son stops by late in the morning looking for advice on a day when none will look askance at him talking to the vicar, and a gentle hubbub increases in the distance as many begin their half-day holiday.

He stands by the lychgate waiting for the final embers to die from the burning of last year's palms, his congregants gradually departing in dribs and drabs to enjoy their holiday with the rest of the village, many playing football on the green.

Bryn Brindsley walks by in his too tight kit, Miriam gently tugging it about him; conversely David in one too big – obviously one of his dad’s kits taken in. Stanley Farrow striding tall and proud with young Stan eager to keep up with him, rapt attention paid to every word. And Will Campbell clearly uncomfortable in his pristinely pressed football kit but clearly cheered by the calm presence of his wife and his daughters’ exuberance.

* * *

Ash Wednesday

A damp coolness pervades, dulling staccato steps on the stone flags of the nave. A workday so few come to the service but enough do; the religious, the retired and those seeking solace. “Brothers and sisters in Christ, since early days Christians have observed with great devotion the time of our Lord’s passion and resurrection and prepared for this by a season of penitence and fasting….”

He marks them with ashes, a gentle touch upon their brow’s, he tries to keep the crosses precise, but a cough here, a fringe there leads to variations with a hint from dark to light of who was blessed, first to last. A mark of piety upon them.

He goes to the school to talk to the children about Lent; looking out on their faces he sees focus, distraction, and confusion from some as they have never had that much to eat that their life has ever felt anything other than a constant lent. As he leaves, he can feel his stomach hollowly empty, growling as he smells the school lunch of hot soup, fresh crusty bread, and stewed apples for afters. The last remaining fruit from the previous harvest, now too aged to eat raw but still good.

* * *

Passion Sunday

It scarcely feels like spring is here, the air no longer frozen but with a clinging damp that pervades everything, leaving everyone chilled no matter how many layers they wear. A hacking, wet cough can be heard throughout the village and particularly in the damp homes of his poorer, sicker parishioners.

However, there are signs of life everywhere, when he and Sarah go for their daily walks, they can see delicate white and yellow flowers starting to emerge everywhere; delicate white snowdrops with their drooping heads, star like windflower, brashly yellow marsh marigold, dandelion, coltsfoot, and lesser celandine, with the odd glimpse of bright blue peeking out of hedgerows at the edge of grassy lanes. The fields around them are covered in daubs of white, once in ones, now in twos or threes indicating that the lambing season is well and truly upon them, stretching out in all directions as if to the very end of God’s creation.

Palm leaves carefully folded into small crosses are held in each hand as the procession departs the church. It almost feels as if he is the Pied Piper of Hamlyn as he leads the congregation from the church out into fresh sunlight, and along the high street. “All Glory, Laud and Honour” clumsily flows into “All Creatures of Our God and King”. The Simmons boy frantically waving his palm in one hand, sucking two fingers of his other hand, all toddler stickiness as he is swiftly distracted by the sight of lambs in the distance.

* * *

Maundy Thursday

He traces his fingertips along her ankle, grazing her smooth skin. A hint of regal blue, showing through porcelain white; as delicate as fine bone china. He kisses the arch of her foot, the flesh warm against his lips and moves to immerse her feet one at a time into the hot water, steam rising up in perfumous waves, enveloping them both and anointing them with the scent of myrrh as he caresses her tired and weary feet. An echo of his earlier observances.


	3. Good Friday - Holy Saturday - Easter Sunday

Good Friday

Outside the church he can hear the odd note of activity, but most of the village are here, with him, in mournful silence. There is no music today, just the service interspersed by moments of quiet meditative thoughtfulness. “Jesus went out with his disciples across the Kidron valley to a place where there was a garden, which he and his disciples entered. Now Judas, who betrayed him, also knew the place…” There is quiet contemplation of the crucifixion and suffering of Christ. All that can be heard is a hollow cough, a scrape of a shoe, a child quietly hushed.

As the service ends people leave to go out of the church in silent reverence. Voices only starting to rise as they move out and away from the church into the April sun. People break off into groups to chat in the churchyard, gradually ambling into the village and home. Some pause and turn their faces to the sun to enjoy the spring-like warmth on their face and neck and hands. He shoos off his normal helpers and instead tidies the church himself, enjoying these peaceful moments of perfect solitude, laying out black cloths for tomorrow.

By the time he returns home it is mid-afternoon, he goes into the kitchen with hunger and hunts down something to fill the empty gap in his stomach. He finds hot-crossed buns in the bread bin; he would heat them himself, but he knows his own skills and cooking of any stripe is one he lacks. He goes to find Sarah and finds her in the garden, her back to him, sun hat on and clearly enjoying the spring sunshine as she kneels to weed the border. He takes a moment to take her in, and she, obviously hearing his presence looks over her shoulder, sees him, smiles, and gets up to brush herself down of any dirt that might linger.

“Hungry?” she asks with a laugh. He smiles and ruefully nods.

“Just let me tidy up and I will be with you in a moment”.

“No, I’ll do that, if you could just….”

“Make something to eat? Those hot-crossed buns? Yes, that’s fine”.

He takes her trowel from her and gathers up her tools to take into the shed, carefully placing them where he knows Sarah likes to keep them. When he returns to the house, he goes back into the kitchen to find the kettle on the boil, and Sarah just removing the hot-crossed buns from under the grill. He pours their tea as she butters the buns, and they take their repast outside into the sunshine. Tea, hot and sweet; and strong enough to be able to stand a teaspoon up in it, the hot-crossed buns, perfectly toasted, with hints of cinnamon and boiling hot raisins bursting in his mouth, all slathered in rich, golden butter, dripping over his fingers as he eats.

* * *

Holy Saturday

Everything is stripped bare, no flowers, no ornaments; just a pitch-black cloth, repeatedly over-dyed across the years to prevent it fading to a dingy brown. The church looks starkly austere, as do his parishioners. He normally sees them wear a bright scarf here, a pretty brooch there, maybe a colourful handbag, or a feather in a Sunday hat; but they are all dressed in shades of black and darkest browns and blues. In many cases faces white with fasting. The liturgy is simple commemorating the burial of Christ. When they leave the church, they do so quietly eager for the following day.

He has much work to do in preparation for the morning, but he takes a nap with this wife, enjoying the presence of holding her near as the sunlight streams through their bedroom window, cocooning them in warmth and light. When he wakes the light has begun to dim, his hand stretches across the bed to where Sarah had lain next to him, it is cool telling him she must have been gone some time. He gets up, readying himself for the celebrations on the morrow.

* * *

Easter Sunday

He goes into the church early and he can see that the ladies of the church have already been in, the wood gleams and the church is all lightness. Mrs Lambert’s sheet music is already on the organ, ready for her to touch hand to key and foot to peddle. The bright white Easter linen embellished with gold already laid out on the alter. Vividly coloured flowers covering every surface; bluebells, cowslips, daffodils, primrose’s, lilies, and tulips, bringing the promise of vibrant new life into the church.

The church-bells peel, ringing out joyfully. Calling out, “Come! Celebrate”. He sees many faces he has not seen since Christmas all turned out in their Sunday best, like a school child on the first day of school, clothes carefully pressed, shoes newly shined and slightly abashed.

“Rejoice, heavenly powers! Sing, choirs of angels! O Universe, dance around God’s throne! Jesus Christ, our King, is risen! Sound the victorious trumpet of salvation!”

When the service is over, he spends time judging the Easter bonnets. Circlets of cardboard, decorated with multi-hued crepe paper, the idea of a daffodil here, the suggestion of a chick there carefully made by the school children in class during the week. Baby bonnets, many carefully crocheted or knitted in pastel hues some delicately sewn with lacey edges. Every mother wanting him to appreciate her child and the effort that has gone into the creation of their Easter best. Many of the women are wearing new hats too, Miriam proudly displaying her Welsh heritage in her cockle bonnet, carefully taken out and refreshed each year. He names the Roberts baby the winner and finds himself holding her for her grateful mother, a sweaty weight against his chest.

The children quickly lose interest in the goings on and while some of the mothers linger to chat in the church most people have filtered out into the kirkyard for the Easter egg hunt. The parents keep a watchful eye over their offspring as they hare to-and-fro, noisily hunting for Easter chocolate. He stands and talks to Bryn and Will thanking them for hiding the Easter eggs this year and they see their wives talking in the distance, gently shaded by a large Yew tree; Miriam in sunshine yellow, Erica in rich cobalt and Sarah in a forest green; adding to the colourful beauty of the day.

**Author's Note:**

> I specifically mention Mrs Esposito's Italian Catholicism and not Roman Catholicism as Epiphany is a National Holiday in Italy and much more widely celebrated than in England.


End file.
